In the Still and Quiet
by Rinsom Lost
Summary: America's been hiding his worsening depression for over two hundred years. He thinks he has it under control, but fate might be trying to tell him differently, as Arthur shows up during one of his low points. kink-meme deanon. Warnings for self-harm and, while not an eating disorder, mentions of something that could be seen as something close.


Alfred's eyes opened slowly, glancing over towards the clock as its shrill buzzing cut through the morning air. It was the third time it had gone off, but he just couldn't move. He rubbed tiredly at his face then rolled over towards the nightstand, pulling the sheet of his hotel bed over his shoulders.

Just five more minutes and he'd get up. Had to get up. He needed at least ten minutes to get ready, to start pushing the mask on. Otherwise it just didn't stick right and he'd feel off through the whole meeting.

Wouldn't be any guarantees even if he had those ten minutes though. Things sometimes fell apart even when he thought he was good to go. Hell, even if it was a good day.

Not that this was gonna be one of his good days anyway, he thought, glancing over at the door. Voices streamed in from the hallway: loud, laughing, yelling. On a good day they'd have been an encouragement, slipping him into his role almost automatically, sometimes even make him feel almost normal.

Today they just made him want to further cocoon himself in the blankets.

He hit the snooze button two more times before he found himself sitting, hunched over on the edge of the bed. Do something for so long and it sometimes happens without thought, the body eventually signaling that something needs to be done, whether you want to or not.

Alfred considered it one of his more important survival mechanisms.

The invading voices from the hallway grew more and more infrequent as he forced himself through getting dressed.

Typically that process was enough to get the mask in place, emotional layers slipping on alongside socks and shirts and jackets.

Today though…

He stared at himself in the mirror, stupid grin yet to appear. The dark circles were too noticeable. His skin was just a little too pale. That shouldn't have been a problem. He'd managed to go outside more in the past month or so, or at least he thought. He glanced over at the clock again. It was well past the time he should have left, but when he looked back at his own complexion he winced. Blunt truth stared back at him.

Alfred shook his head, gripping the front of the dresser, as a wave of doubt surged up and over him. He wasn't ready, in any way, shape, or form. Maybe he could beg off, say he was sick or something.

He sighed around a bitter curling of lips.

The mirror rattled as he pushed himself away from the dresser. The small bottles hidden in a pocket next to his shampoo and shaving cream would hopefully do the trick.

Dabbing a bit of foundation onto a sponge and brushing it across his face, he imagined a thicker mask appearing in front of him, light and cheerful. The face everyone expected to see. He dotted the concealer across his lower eyelids and started pulling his lips into a grin. It hurt. He was tired and he didn't feel like it and it all felt fa-

He clenched his eyes shut and breathed.

Stop.

Rewind.

Replay.

He felt wonderful. He was the United States of America and he was the hero and not a fuckup and a waste of-

Stop.

Rewind.

Replay.

Everyone loved- hated, barely put up with at be-

Stop.

Rewind.

Replay.

He-

Alfred stared at his reflection in the mirror, smile twitching, not yet reaching his eyes.

This really wasn't one of his good days, was it?

Stop.

Rewind.

Replay.

* * *

><p>He was late. He was late even by the standards of world meetings, where half of the nations came wandering in five minutes after the official start time.<p>

His shoulders were tight as he walked quickly down the hall. He couldn't decide today, whether mask-Alfred would stroll or make a running dash, but he didn't have the energy for a dash, and he wasn't so confident that he could take his time. So he went with something in between, even if it made him feel itchy and a little uncertain.

The hallways were mostly clear. Just a few random hotel guests and workers passed him on the way down to the conference rooms. There'd be no slipping in with the other nations today. He'd have to pull one of his big displays. He could try to pull a sheepish grin, but that felt too normal, too middle line. His mask was slippery, felt slapdash despite the extended period of time he'd stood in front of the mirror. It was either go big or go home.

That was the way it was at every meeting anymore it seemed. Used to he'd tried to arrive about the same time as Arthur, or Kiku, someone he could chat with as they walked into the hall, someone to take the spotlight off of him, just a little bit. Other times he'd managed to slip in quietly, pretending he was his brother, but that was difficult. Even at his quietest he still had a different presence than Matt. The different sort of smile, the gentle easy one, had been a little harder to paste on than his usual mask, too close to genuine to do anything but hurt, but the quiet minutes off to the side made it worth the effort. It had been heaven.

It had been years since he'd managed that.

He slowed as he approached the double doors of the meeting room, the dread growing in him like some sort of mutant kudzu. God, he hated this whole charade. Had hated it since that first time he'd pulled it out, in 1789 at his second world meeting, after he'd pretty much been ignored or dismissed at the first one. That was long before the depression worsened, back when it was just an occasional bout of blues. His act hadn't been much either at that point, just an exaggeration of himself on his best days, with an added couple cups of coffee for good measure. The depression and the mask had grown together though, darkening and deepening and pulling him into a trap he had no clue how to get out of.

He shook his head, checking his smile and planting his hands on either side of the heavy wooden doors. This wasn't the time for thoughts like that.

"Hey! The Hero's here!" Alfred shouted as he pushed open the doors, laughing loudly. His voice simply mingled with those of the various shouting nations; thank God the first arguments had already broken out. He felt a small weight lift off his chest. He could handle this.

Sticking his hands in his pockets, he strolled across the room, shoulders back and down, confidence incarnate.

"Dude, _you've_ got a mess today," he said, still laughing, as he came to stand beside Germany, whose calm exterior was only betrayed by the slight tick in his cheek. "Want me to at least try to split up Eyebrows and Frenchie?"

Germany continued to survey the building pandemonium, refusing to meet his glance. "You've done enough already. The first problem today was an argument as to where you were. Your sort of help would just make it all explode."

"I think it's already done that without me, but whatever," Alfred replied lightly. He almost flinched at the bitterness that leaked out, but managed to keep his loose smile going. "If they want to fight they're gonna fight. Bet they were all looking for excuses the second they got here." He laughed again. "You stress too much. Prussia slip salt in your coffee again or something? Glue your papers together?"

Germany finally glanced over at him, eyes narrowing. "Not everyone can be as laid-back as you. Some of us like to actually get things done."

"Hey," Alfred said, grabbing his chest with feigned injury, using that to fight off the very real stabbing sensation, "I work plenty. How can the hero save the world if he doesn't, huh?" His voice must have slipped again though, because for just a split second Germany's expression softened. Alfred worked that much harder, tightening his hold, wishing his mask didn't feel so slapdash. "Well, I take care of the big stuff. Or at least the cool stuff. I mean, that's what sidekicks are for right, to take care of the stuff that's not cool enough for the hero. Course sometimes that's a lot of the-"

Germany sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose and said, "Sit down America."

Alfred shrugged and walked around the clustered groups of arguing nations, towards the empty seat beside Matthew. He plopped himself down and leaned back, ignoring his brother's greeting. He hated doing that, hated seeing the pained expression he was putting on his brother's face. But he wasn't feeling okay enough to deal with Matt. Everything was too slippery and if there was anyone in the world that would notice something was wrong it would be Matt.

He'd make it up to him. Send him tickets to a hockey game or something. Maybe he'd even be feeling normal enough to go with him this time. He couldn't remember the last time they'd made plans without Al having to call off at the last moment.

He tried to ignore the voice saying how much he fucking sucked as a brother, focusing instead on the irritation slowly growing again on Germany's face.

He should go off in about five. Four. Three-

Germany cut off Alfred's count, slamming his palms onto the table. The glasses and pitchers rocked slightly. Alfred blinked, feeling his grin tighten from effort. He must have really been ticked off today.

Germany's voice filled the conference room, echoing across the walls and Alfred settled further into his seat, listening as well as he could, but pretending to drift with boredom, keeping the important parts, but trying to filter out the prickly stinging words. The expression was something he liked to think of as 'goofy pensive', and was equal parts mask and survival mechanism.

It wasn't always easy, even on one of his good days. That day it felt near impossible.

It was a horrible tightrope act sometimes, and more than once he'd slipped too far, drifting off for real, only to be left unprepared when he was suddenly jerked up out of his thoughts and back into reality, stammering while searching wildly for a mask-Alfred response.

Those moments were fairly easy to recover from as long as he'd managed to keep his expression light enough.

The solution: act clueless.

Of course some of those times his expression slipped into something too pensive, too serious. Sometimes it was so easy for the feigned disinterest to slip into something more genuine. More tired.

Like now, he realized, blinking and coming back to himself.

He glanced around quickly, trying to brighten his eyes while retaining a calm exterior.

Not that big a deal, he told himself, while his heart thudded in his chest. No one was looking at him. Germany was still on his rant. He just had to swing back the other direction. Just had to pretend to be thinking about something stupid-

Not that that should be too difficult for him.

He felt something inside creak, even as the wood of his pencil moved slightly underneath his tightened fingers.

'Ease off', he thought, loosening his grip. No broken pencils. No unwanted attention.

Got to relax. Turn off the bad tape.

It was too late though, really. He was already sinking, no matter how hard he tried to pull himself out. He was only-

Stop.

Alfred straightened for a moment, breathing in a not-very-calming breath, then leaned forward towards the table, propping himself up with his elbow, lazily. He glanced up again, before directing his attention down to the paper in front of him, letting the pencil move across it.

He was starting to feel Germany's voice echo against his skull, in addition to the walls of the conference room. Why was he being so damn loud today? Honestly, Alfred didn't even know why Germany cared so much. It's not like the meetings had ever been productive. The first he'd attended had broken up after three hours, and that was back when the nations would spend days if not weeks trying to get to the meetings to begin with. It had taken a month and a half for him to get to Europe, only for the whole thing to be over before he'd spoken to four nations. The only thing that had improved about world meetings over the years had been travel time. If they never had another one of these meetings it wouldn't really matter anyway.

God, he missed isolationism. No one would e-

Stop.

Alfred squeezed his eyes shut, hiding the wince behind a yawn. He laid his head on the table, pillowed by his arm. It wasn't a surrender, he told himself. Half of the other nations were either yawning or in some state of sleep anyway. He was just switching tactics.

Another voice rose to meet Germany's at this point. Romano? Spain wouldn't be that far behind, or maybe Veniciano. It didn't really matter. None of it really mattered.

Stop.

More voices were joining now, another argument breaking out, then another, getting louder and louder.

Couldn't they ever get _anything_ done without yelling?

His pencil scratched across the paper without a glance, without a thought.

He'd be expected to join in soon, do or say something. He should lift his head up, grin and say something stupid, but everything was sinking into his head in the wrong ways. He could feel it tugging him down, a bitter molasses swallowing him.

Couldn't they all just shut up?

He pushed his face into the crook of his elbow. Just for a moment. Just a minute.

His face felt wrong behind the smile he couldn't drop. His brain itched, longed to dig his nails into-

Alfred sat up, struggling to pull himself back, to grab hold of his thought processes and strangle them into submission.

He swallowed thickly, fighting against the sick feeling rising up from his stomach, then glanced at his paper and its thick jagged black lines.

The paper crumpled in his hand as he pushed himself away from the table, rushing for the bathroom.

* * *

><p>"Al?" His brother's voice echoed through the bathroom.<p>

Alfred winced. "In here Matt." He coughed, then spit again into the toilet, trying to get rid of the taste of bile.

"You okay?"

His gut twisted.

No. He was not getting emotional over that question. He was not. Fucking-

"Al?" Matthew asked again.

Alfred coughed again, clearing the tightness in his throat. "Must have ate something bad," he lied, easily, "Like raw meat sitting on the counter for a week bad."

"With your stomach that means you'll be fine in a few minutes?" Matt laughed, but it was slightly strained.

"Hopefully," Alfred replied with his own weak laugh, but was tempting to stick a finger down his throat, make himself audibly gag to avoid going back into the meeting room, to avoid leaving the stall and dealing with his brother's questioning gaze.

That thought, along with the scent of vomit, was enough to get him started again.

He heard Matt lean against the row of stalls and sigh between his bouts of retching.

"Do you want me to get your briefcase?"

Alfred swallowed, staring at the wall for a moment. He wasn't in any shape to handle the meeting; he should have listened to his gut that morning instead of trying to suck it up. "Yeah, that's…" Alfred said, tiredly, "probably a good idea."

When he heard Matt leave the room Alfred stood, shakily, and flushed the toilet.

He stared at himself in the mirror after rinsing his mouth out, wiped off his face with a wet paper towel. He grimaced at how pallid he looked with the makeup mostly gone. At least now he had an excuse for looking sick.

Alfred leaned over, propping himself up with his hands planted firmly on the edges of the sink, and breathed.

He didn't think he had the will to focus on anything else at the moment.

The cool hand on the back of his neck a few minutes later would have felt like heaven if it hadn't meant having to fake normalcy again. He longed to lean over, rest a bit against his brother. Instead he pulled on a tired smile and straightened up, bumping against Matt's side in a friendly gesture.

"What have you done to yourself now? You look like shite," Arthur said, from behind Matt, "to put it bluntly."

Alfred's smile slipped just a little, "Yeah well, looks like your cooking didn't prepare my guts for everything."

"There's absolutely nothing in a bit of burnt bread that wo-"

Francis walked into the room next, behind Arthur. "Burnt bread? Angleterre, with the things I have seen you do to food it's amazing he didn't die as a colony."

Alfred felt his still-too-sensitive stomach lurch. He breathed in through his mouth, and swallowed, trying to ignore the weird salty flavor in his mouth. "Could we not-"

"Die? The things that have gone into your mouth would-"

"Guys…"

"Your vegetables are always brown and mushy, whatever they lo-"

"Could we maybe not-" Matt, glanced hesitantly between Alfred and Arthur and Francis.

"Frogs! One of the slimiest creatures I have ever-"

"Jellied eels!"

"Oh God," Alfred groaned, leaning over the sink again, hoping they'd get the point and just leave. Maybe if he threw up right in front of them they'd shut up for once.

Amazingly, the room went quiet. He focused on breathing in and out for a moment then lifted his head. He was surprised to see Matt giving Francis and Arthur a death glare.

He breathed in again, letting it go with a sigh, "Why are you guys here anyway? Isn't Germany having a fit over the three of you going missing?" He breathed in once more, then turned on the water and splashed some onto his face.

"Nothing was getting done today anyway," Francis said, "So he dismissed the meeting."

"As to why we're _here, _Francis and I were going to have to cancel lunch. But I can see now that that isn't going to be an issue."

Of course, they weren't checking on him.

Alfred shook his head, pushing away an internal wince, trying to remind himself that he wanted to be alone right now. Lunch would have been difficult anyway. Well, the puking would have explained away his shrunken appetite, something he'd noticed a couple of weeks ago, but now he didn't have to worry about any slip-ups at all.

"Also, we have a meeting at the end of the month. I took the liberty of phoning your secretary to arrange it." Arthur slipped him a piece of paper, "The twenty ninth at eleven o'clock, your D.C. office. Don't be late this time."

Alfred blinked, nodding, and stuck the paper in his pocket.

Arthur frowned for just a moment, studying his face, then said quickly, "I hope you feel better lad," before turning around and walking out the door, past Francis.

"Yes," Francis added, before following after Arthur, "And be more careful with what you eat mon cochon."

Alfred smiled, despite the slight sting from Francis' words. No harm meant.

"Well, guess it's just you and me now, Bro," he said, turning towards Matt. "Can't say I'll be great company, but we could at watch tv or something now that we've got some time."

Matt winced, looking off to the side. "Actually, I've got to cancel too. I've got a meeting I forgot about."

"Ah," Alfred said, nodding, gripping his mask tight.

"I'm really sorry, Al." Matthew said, looking truthful, if not the most sincere.

"Hey, no problem. Things come up," Alfred said, reigning in the small flood of hurt and reminding himself of all the times he's had to cancel on Matt. "Next time?"

"Sounds good. Maybe avoid the bad burgers?"

"You can bet on that," Alfred smiled as his brother walked through the door.

He continued to stare at the open door as the sound of Matthew's footsteps disappeared down the hall.

He _did_ want to be alone.

He did, Alfred told himself, pretending that wasn't a lie.

Maybe the next month would be better, he dared to hope. Maybe he wouldn't have to avoid everyone. He'd drop in on France unexpectedly, or go bug Matt for some syrup, or bring Kiku a new game, or harass Arthur into watching a movie with him.

He held onto that determination, used it to pull on his smile when he checked himself in the mirror.

Alfred bent over to grab his briefcase, which his brother had set down beside the sink, and walked out the door. The piece of paper, having slipped out of his pocket, lay on the bathroom floor, unnoticed.

* * *

><p>The next month didn't go well. Instead, everything continued to fall apart. He'd managed to carry on as usual for the most part. He always did, although he kept arriving to work later and later, meaning longer hours spent there at night trying to get all the paperwork done. He didn't trust himself to get it done at home. Nothing ever got done at home. Not anymore.<p>

Little by little he was using all the energy he had just to keep up appearances, and the mask felt like it weighed a little more every time he put it on.

By the end of the month fate had decided to step in.

Alfred lay curled up on the couch, breathing in and out. Just breathing. Everything else took too much effort.

It wasn't fair.

Wasn't-

He could've handled another crappy day. One more day like all the others.

But he'd woken up and the world had looked almost normal. A little lighter than he'd seen it in- God it had to have been _years_. The sky was blue. Absolutely blue! And he could breath!

And then it was gone.

He couldn't even remember what had happened to make everything break. Maybe it hadn't been anything.

But whatever happened the darkness came back, and the difference was like a punch to the face.

He'd pulled himself over to the couch and just lied there, waiting for the ache to turn into a familiar numbness, something he could at least deal with, but it never came.

He thought for a while, about calling Mattie, or Kiku, or- but his throat was too tight and the mask felt too stiff, too heavy, and he didn't know if he could take hearing the exasperation, the annoyance.

He was just so-

He wanted-

Alfred squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted too damn much.

He wanted to be hungry. For food. For life.

For _anything_.

He wanted to feel something other than hurt and numb.

He wanted his blue sky back.

The couch arm scratched against his face as he curled up on himself with the ache. And something clicked over in his mind, a flipped switch. His hand came up to grip his arm, too long, untrimmed nails tugging on the fabric and-

He jerked his hand away as soon as the sweet sharpness started, tears springing up in his eyes in frustration.

Two fucking months. Almost three.

He was almost there.

Almost…

The thought passed wordlessly through his mind. He breathed, a shaky sob hitching in his throat, as he felt a wall crumble in his mind. Resignation.

He'd almost had it.

* * *

><p>He didn't hear his phone going off, or the knocking on his front door.<p>

He'd tried to drown out his thoughts with music- anything loud and cheerful- failing for the third time in as many days.

Then Arthur was storming through the living room, yelling about meetings and being responsible, too fast for Alfred to do more than look up in shock as Arthur stood there in the kitchen doorway staring at him

Don't. Don't say anything, a small voice begged within him. He wasn't sure who it was meant for.

And then Arthur broke the precious silence. "Alfred," he whispered breathily.

Alfred just sat there, staring dumbly, throat tightening. He'd started searching for the mask, but it was too late for that with the blackened scissors edge sitting across his arm.

"Give me a minute," he said, with a voice he didn't realize he had anymore, lifting the metal off of his skin and watching as the red skin swelled, soon to blister.

"Bloody hell I-"

"I said give me a minute," Alfred said, a little louder, only to find himself completely ignored as Arthur grabbed him by the arm, a little above the burn, and pulled him over to the sink. Arthur turned on the faucet and pushed Alfred's arm up under the running water.

They stood there, in silence, as Alfred's arm numbed, the contact uncomfortable- too close.

The silence only continued as Arthur grabbed a dishtowel out of the drawer beside the sink, wetting it and wrapping it around Alfred's arm, then led him back over to the table. The burn was tended to and the various scars on his arms were glanced at, examined.

Alfred sighed with growing irritation. "I've got it under control, okay."

Arthur looked up at him, then stared back down at his arm, fingering a particularly long scar that hadn't faded yet. "Oh, right. Yes. Of course you do. Because slicing yourself open is a perfectly good way to show you're in control." He spat out the last bit, as if the words burned his tongue. Arthur glanced down at Alfred's hands, which had found their way to each other. "Stop that!" he said, and slapped them. Then, with a pained expression, as if someone had hit him instead, he reached out and grabbed Alfred's hands, pulling them close to his chest.

Alfred didn't move, shocked at the action, as Arthur slowly rubbed his thumbs over Alfred's hands, first over the light pink mark where the slap had made contact, then over the fingers, where he'd been pushing his nails into the skin. He hadn't realized he'd been doing it, but now he noticed the small bits of pain blooming softly, every time the pads of Arthur's thumbs brushed his own tender skin.

"Love," Arthur said, softer this time, without the typical biting tone. Alfred's heart hurt, suddenly, and he longed to pull his hands back, to claw into his wrists or his legs or somewhere, anywhere to distract him from the ache and that voice in that tone.

Instead he closed his eyes, relaxed into it, into the soft stroke that he didn't deserve, would never _ever_ deserve.

"God, Love," Arthur said again, the word alien in his mouth, unused, in regards to this person, for so long. He squeezed Alfred's hands, "this isn't-"

"Yeah, I know. Not healthy." Alfred sighed, pulling his hands away. He missed the warmth almost instantly.

"Now," he said, stretching out for the mask, lips curling up enevenly. "There's gotta be some reason you're here other than harassing me. If anyone's suppose to be doing the harassing it's me. That's my job Arty." He said with a smirk that didn't quite fit. His cheek twitched with the effort.

The expression on Arthur's face made it clear it wasn't going to work. Alfred stood up, pushing himself away from the table, away from the discussion he was desperate to shut down.

"That can bloody well wait. This is not a matter to-"

It took Alfred a moment to realize that his vision had blurred, blackened and that the loud clattering he'd heard just a second prior had turned into a strange whiny roar. He was falling, before he could reach out. Then arms were suddenly around his middle. He heard a grunt in his ear as they gripped him tight, straining, the strength holding him still unable to keep his backside from hitting the floor.

Then the white noise began to clear, just a little, letting in still indecipherable words. He was lying on the ground, the tile cold and hard against the back of his head, and there were hands on his face, so warm, in contrast. Then after a moment something cold and soft and wet took their place.

"Alfred? Can you hear me?"

He opened his eyes, then shut them again, unready for the sharp concerned green. Muttered a positive reply.

"When did you last eat?"

Alfred frowned, clarity was slow in coming back to him. It was hard to think.

"Alfred, I can feel your ribs! When did you last eat?"

Arthur's voice was loud, and angry, and too much to deal with. All of it was too much to deal with.

Like always though, he managed to find the strength anyway somehow, and he opened his eyes again.

"Of course you could feel my ribs," he said, in a voice that was too tired, "You caught me 'round the fucking middle. And I had a cereal bar earlier, I think." Or a bite of it at least, before he threw the rest out. Arthur didn't need to know that though.

Arthur frowned, obviously holding himself back. His eyes were livid. After a moment though, he calmed, just a bit. Enough to speak without yelling at least. "This is what you call having things under control?"

"I've dealt for this long okay? I think I know what counts as having it under control!", but his voice cracked. The one crack was enough. He coughed anyway, to hide it, from Arthur and himself, but cold air against wet skin doesn't leave much room for excuses.

He was too tired to swipe at his face, like he knew he should have been doing. His arms lay like dead weights on the floor.

And oh, there was the ache again. His comfortable numbness was already gone.

Reality was coming, crashing into him like a freight train.

And yeah, he'd slipped too far. Not with the knife this time. But still, he felt he was bleeding out all the same.

"Do you feel ready to sit up?" Arthur asked, suddenly sounding so tired.

Alfred nodded, or made the closest approximation he could, lying on his kitchen floor.

An arm braced his shoulders as he pushed himself up and scooted back against the dishwasher.

Then Arthur was sitting beside him. A can of soda, already opened, was placed in his hands.

They were silent, for a while, as Alfred sipped the sugary drink.

"Family, for a nation, is an odd thing," Arthur started off slowly, still managing to surprise Alfred despite that. "We call younger nations our little brothers and sisters, while the people and governments speak of 'mother countries'." He shook his head. "Francis gives Matthew his hair, meanwhile, my colonies get my eyebrows." He laughed bitterly.

Alfred glanced over at Arthur, not saying a word, but hoping his confusion was evident.

Arthur sighed, looking at his hands. "Looking at you, I can see so many faces. I'd wanted to keep you to myself, but you never were. And there's so many bits and pieces, that sometimes I struggle to see myself in you at all. Because of that I'd hoped," Arthur paused, his voice strained. "I'd hoped that you would be spared this."

"I'm so sorry, love," he continued, reaching out for Alfred's hand. "I finally find some spot of me in you, and it's this."

The full meaning behind Arthur's confession hit him. Alfred glanced over at Arthur, taking him in as if he'd never really looked at him before. Maybe he hadn't.

"I got your stubbornness too," Alfred said, after a moment.

Arthur frowned, "and my propensity for hiding things." He sighed, running a hand through his hair, "I'm not going to ask you why you didn't tell me. But does anyone know? Have you talked to anyone?"

Alfred shook his head. "I get along okay."

"Yes. Well, I've already said what I think about that bit of nonsense." Arthur stared hard at Alfred's arms.

For a moment Alfred had felt a bit lighter, but the weight came back suddenly as he felt Arthur's eyes on his scars. How must he look to Arthur? Mr. Keep calm and carry on. Mr. Stiff upper lip. Who knew how heavy life could feel and evidently got on with his day just fine without taking a heated pair of scissors or a knife to his arm. What if he thought Alfred was just being weak? That if he was better at carrying that weight then maybe he'd never have to hurt himself at all. He'd never have to use that crutch. Maybe he was-

"No." Arthur said suddenly, gripping Alfred's chin and turning his face towards his. "You may be very practiced at hiding things, but now I know what to look for and I know that look very well. That was not what I wanted you to take from all of that. Whatever it is that's going through your mind right now, I want you to stop." He sighed, his hand slipping away from Alfred's face. "You know, I'm no one to talk about coping mechanisms, considering the amount of times you've dragged my drunken arse home."

Alfred nodded.

"God," Arthur said, rubbing his eyes. "You're being so quiet."

"Thought you would have liked that."

Arthur shook his head. "Not like this. It makes me worry when you do that." He thought for a moment, then continued. "It's the wrong sort of quiet. When you were small it meant something was wrong."

"It's-" Alfred started to say, then stopped. He didn't really know how to say anything that was going on in his head. Everything was a swirling mess and he didn't feel he could pick anything out, and trying to just exhausted him. He shook his head slowly, then lowered it towards his chest.

He hadn't realized he'd closed his eyes until he felt the hand on the side of his head, pulling it down towards Arthur's shoulder and holding it there. Alfred breathed in, and before he could stop himself he was taking in the aroma of tea and burnt scones and green fields after rain. It was calming, a warm comfort whose effect was frighteningly unchanged since his youth. Memories of near silent evenings in front of the fireplace flooded back to him, evenings when everything felt wrong except for his caregivers presence and low, soft hums.

"You're not getting out of this" Arthur replied. "All of this needs to be discussed, no matter how badly you may want to just ignore it. But I understand, or at least I think I do, and it doesn't have to be right now. It's okay. We can be quiet, if you want."

Alfred nodded, relief flooding through him, and buried his nose in Arthur's sweater. There'd be discussions later, about doctors and reasonable workloads and taking better care of himself. He'd call Matt, and there'd be apologies and explanations and hopefully stupid movies to take the bite out of the truth. But right now there was quiet, and the warm comfort of the sweater clad shoulder, and for the moment that was enough.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: So, this wasn't as easy one. Despite the subject matter I tried to make sure Alfred wasn't _too_ out of character, but I don't know if I succeeded at all. I've played around with the idea of an Alfred who's more serious/ deals with SAD in some unposted stuff, but this was the first time I tackled him dealing with something more like major depression. I've based his reactions partially on both my own experiences as well as that of friends/family, but everyone deals with depression/self-harm/unhealthy thinking in different ways, and I'm just hoping that I chose the right direction while having Alfred deal with these issues.

Okay, so that comment out of the way, I hope you enjoyed the story, and any sort of response to this would be wonderful. I love hearing what you liked, what you think works, what you think doesn't work. I thrive off of constructive criticism. It's the only way I know, other than just writing more of course ^_^, to improve on my stuff. All of that to say, any comments at all are more than welcome and of course, thanks for reading.


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